When friends become foe

Do you remember the first time you looked at a childhood friend with new eyes? The boy-next-door turned handsome hunk who all of a sudden makes you blush, or the geeky girl with spectacles who now works at the dentist's and sees you at your most vulnerable? These often unsettling realisations come to us all at some point, and none more so than when we find ourselves faced with the prospect of setting out to destroy something that we once held dear.

There was a time when I'd spend many hours happily scouring the garden for my favourite creatures... caterpillars. My mum read The Hungry Caterpillar to me time and time again, and each time I was fascinated by just how much food that one tiny creature managed to consume. I felt we had an indelible bond, this caterpillar with a voracious appetite and I, and I looked forward to the day when I too would metamorphose into a beautiful butterfly.

My first school project was to capture one of these small, green, innocuous-looking creatures, keep it safe in a clear plastic container, provide it with leaves and air holes, and nurture it to the next stage of its lifecycle. Unlike the majority of my school projects, this one was a triumph. I have to admit that I'd lost interest in Columbus the caterpillar about three days after he became a chrysalis, but I'll never forget the realisation that the fluttering noise I could hear in the corner of my bedroom heralded Columbus' emergence as a fully-fledged cabbage white. It was a proud moment.

So it was with no small sense of sadness that I set out last weekend armed with a watering can laced with environmentally-friendly, but caterpillar-deadly, potion, intent on protecting my beloved herb garden from further destruction.

In a small courtyard, any greenery is precious, and my small offering of herbs not only look pretty, but also come in very handy for enhancing my fondness for food that has endured since childhood. So imagine my distress, after a shower of much needed rain, to discover that my basil was being consumed at a rate of knots many times faster than I could hope to make pesto, and the rocket was looking decidedly beleagured. And the aftermath of chopping in half one of the offenders as I prepared a tomato and mozzarella salad is an image that has been hard to shake off.

So something had to go. And it certainly wasn't going to be my parsley.